


i can't stand to be where you don't see me.

by theangryblob



Series: omigiri bites [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Pining, Secret Crush, love is diligence love is my conscious devotion to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26028118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangryblob/pseuds/theangryblob
Summary: “Don’t worry,” Osamu never yields, same as his brother, but the tone of his voice makes Kiyoomi crumble like nothing else, “I made it myself—made sure everything was sanitized and cleaned the way you like it. Yours is different from the rest, see?”He taps the yellow smiley sticker atop the plastic bento box, and Kiyoomi’s throat closes up.
Relationships: Miya Osamu & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: omigiri bites [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889293
Comments: 12
Kudos: 144





	i can't stand to be where you don't see me.

**Author's Note:**

> theres less than a dozen omigiri fics. somebody has to fix this. unfortunately i have no idea what romance, so have a floundering omi instead

For all his boasting, Miya Osamu has far more in common with his twin than he’ll let anyone say. 

It’s not just the face—it’s never been the face, actually. Atsumu: square jaw, grinning mouth, sharp teeth. A man that screams  _**look at me** _ with every fiber of his being, screams it with his voice too. Provocative. Easy to hate, easy to like, but someone that Kiyoomi’s never thought about much more than he has to. A job made more difficult now that they’re on the same side of the net, but it could be worse. 

He could be Osamu, for starters. 

And because he hates himself, he spends his all his time thinking about the crueler Miya. 

“Alright, boys!” They’re men, grown men, half of them older than Osamu, but that doesn’t stop him, no, never. Unshakable, like a defense you can never break through. “Come get yer’ grub!” 

Shouyou is running from the other side of the court, nearly trips over a ball but uses his momentum to propel himself the next ten meters to the benches. Kiyoomi’s mouth quirks, but Osamu laughs, all teeth when he grins. 

“Hey, Shouyou,” Osamu puffs out his chest and puts his hands on his hips. With his cap on, he looks more coach than caterer, as strong and tall as any of them. He can’t imagine Osamu keeps the same workout schedule as them, not when he doesn’t need to. Would he even have the time? Probably not. But the results say otherwise, and Kiyoomi feels a little light-headed thinking about Osamu keeping a diligent gym schedule alongside his work hours. 

Kiyoomi eyes the stacks of bento boxes that Osamu’s brought with him and slowly backs away, letting the rest of his team hound around him. If they’re taking a lunch break now, he wants to at least towel off before he goes to heat up his own food. There’s a line of sweat dripping down his spine and just thinking about it makes him shudder. He feels gross. 

And more importantly, he doesn’t want Osamu to see him all sweaty and disgusting. 

It’s one thing for the animals they call men to walk around like that, but Kiyoomi bristles at the idea of losing face in front of Miya Osamu. He’s met him dozens of times, more frequently now that Kiyoomi plays alongside his brother, but Kiyoomi’s kept an eye on him since high school. The Miya twins have always been attention grabbing, for both their looks and personalities, but where Atsumu screamed, riled up the crowd for attention, Osamu got what he wanted with a closed fist and a cool gaze. 

“Omi-san!” 

He’s never been above raising his voice though. 

Kiyoomi flinches and turns around slowly with a wince. The others have already sat down to eat—loud even when they’re supposed to be chewing. Osamu gives him an even gaze and a broad smile, sans teeth. “Where do you think yer’ goin?” 

He hesitates before stepping back to the benches, draping his towel over his shoulder. “What is it, Miya-san?”

“Oh, come _on,_ ” Osamu rolls his eyes, but the smile doesn’t leave his handsome mouth, amused, “just Osamu, please. I know what Atsumu’s done to tarnish this good family name.”

That gets a smirk out of Kiyoomi and an outraged yelp from Atsumu, but he tunes it out in favor of watching Osamu hand a box to him, one gloved hand outstretched. “Don't skip yer' meals. Season’s starting soon, so sit down and eat. Ya' need to get strong.”

Kiyoomi stills, eyes the box. Onigiri? Unlikely; he knows _Onigiri Miya_ has a bigger menu than just that, but the idea of someone touching his food with their bare hands makes him squeamish. “It’s alright.”

“Don’t worry,” Osamu never yields, same as his brother, but the tone of his voice makes Kiyoomi crumble like nothing else, “I made it myself—made sure everything was sanitized and cleaned the way you like it. Yours is different from the rest, see?” 

He taps the yellow smiley sticker atop the plastic box, and Kiyoomi’s throat closes up. 

He takes it and murmurs his thanks, bowing his head to hide the flush crawling over his cheeks. If Osamu sees it, he either doesn’t say anything or thinks it's because of how hard he’d been practicing. His legs feel numb and he works on autopilot, taking a seat next to Koutarou to eat. When he peeks up, Osamu has already turned away, shedding his plastic gloves and talking to their coach, who thanks him profusely for always providing. 

He’s brought another employee with him today, a pimply teenager with curly hair barely contained under her black  _ Onigiri Miya _ cap. And she’s staring right at him. 

_ God. _

Kiyoomi looks down, focusing his attention on the bento box. When he opens it, he finds it really is different to what the rest of them are eating: a tiny portion of rice with a pink umeboshi in the center, chicken breast and some vegetables. It’s sparsely decorated but it looks good, and Kiyoomi’s stomach grumbles at the sight. He’s got his own lunch in his locker, waiting for him to heat it up. But the steam comes up and touches his face;  _ fresh,  _ and he finds himself too ravenous to ignore this meal, meticulously made just for him. 

When he looks up, the girl is looking at him again but turns away when he catches her, clearly flustered. Osamu thumps her back and drags her over, much to Kiyoomi’s growing panic. 

“Omi-san! My Yui-chan here is a big fan of yours.” 

He grins and Yui sputters, looking anywhere but Kiyoomi. “I-I-I’m a b-b---big fan," she repeats."

Kiyoomi tries to hide his grimace, but his face contorts into the worst kind of smile, all wobbly and forced. Osamu looks at him expectantly, the tiniest furrow between his dark brows. He doesn’t say anything else, just  _ waits _ , and Kiyoomi gets the feeling he’s being bullied. They’re still looking at him. 

From the corner of his eye, he spots Meian looking at him too, watching him like a hawk. 

_ God. _

“Hello, Yui-san,” it takes all his effort to raise his voice to an appropriate level, and he flounders. “Thank you for your support.”

Osamu is still looking at him. He panics.

“Uh,” he raises a clenched fist, nods a little too aggressively. “Work hard. Do your best.”

Yui bows her head, thanking him before Osamu pats her back. “Go pack up, we’ve got other places to be.” 

He doesn’t even wait for her to be out of hearing range before he gives Kiyoomi the most  _ disappointed _ look, mouth flat as he crosses his arms over his chest. “That was pathetic.”

Kiyoomi thinks he’s going to evaporate. “I don’t like talking to fans. I’m not good at it.”

“So? Get good at it.”

“Sakusa, this is part of your job too. You need to talk to the fans.” Meian levels him with a look, and it feels worse than normal because Meian doesn’t look mad. Just bored, droopy eyes regarding him with something he can’t understand. 

Osamu breaks out into a laugh. “See? Even your captain agrees with me. What’s gonna happen when all your fans come swarming and you can’t even say hello?”

“I said hello…” he murmurs, but the sound gets swallowed up. “Besides, most of them come for the others. I’m not flashy like them.”

“Hm. Dunno. I think you’re pretty popular,” he taps his forehead, “and you stand out too. Don’t get all humble about it now.”

Osamu hasn’t touched him, but the moles on Kiyoomi’s forehead feel warm under his skin. “Okay,” he concedes, because what else is he supposed to do? “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s the spirit!” 

Osamu doesn’t pay him much attention after that and Kiyoomi deflates, all the energy whipped out of him. They still have an afternoon of practice ahead of them, and he’s barely had a chance to eat his food. The rest of them are almost done with lunch, somehow, even though they were eating the whole time.

It’s still warm. Simple and good. His whole body tingles but it’s less because of how tasty the meal is and more because of how Osamu spares him a single glance later, a small smile, and then nothing. What did Kiyoomi look like? Did he make a face? The food is good but he’s sure he didn’t do anything weird; he’s not like the rest of them.

_ God. _

He’s still thinking about it for the rest of the day, even when he tries to focus. He plays better, but even he can’t tell if it’s because he’s gotten that much better in a couple hours, or because Miya Osamu and his even grin are plaguing him. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The roar of the crowd is deafening, like a wave coming in on him from all sides. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple and he swallows, tightens his grip on his bag. First match of the season and the fans are hungry, ravenous for a win. Atsumu walks beside him, grinning before they’ve even stepped out into view. He looks vicious, more animal than human, but when Kiyoomi says so, his expression dissolves into an indignant scowl, hand on his chest like Kiyoomi is personally responsible for his impending death. 

“Yer’ killing me here! Don’t ya' ever get excited? Doesn’t the crowd ever get ya' riled up?”

“Doesn’t mean I have to act like  _ that." _

“Like what? What’re ya' tryna say here? Why I-” Osamu stops him mid sentence with a smack to the back of his head. 

Kiyoomi gives him a nod in thanks.

They break apart then, the team starting their warm ups. Shouyou and Atsumu rush through it as quickly as they can, eager to get onto the court and practice their serves. The crowd roars before they’ve even started, and Kiyoomi can see their heads inflate from where he stands. 

“They’re monsters, aren’t they Omi-san?”

He turns, eyes wide, except Osamu’s not looking at him. He’s looking at the court, looking at the way they scream and growl at each other with every serve and spike. It’s just a bit of practice before the game but the crowd is going wild for it, cheering louder and louder every time Koutarou or Atsumu turn to face their fans, arms wide and ready to receive all their love. Kiyoomi can’t even say that it’s for show. They feed off this energy, get themselves riled up, blood pumping and teeth bared, like the only thing keeping them from tearing the other team apart is ten meters of net. 

But Osamu doesn’t look shocked or weirded out, the way Kiyoomi does when the rest of his team are like this. 

No, he looks  _ proud. _

And he’s not looking at him. It feels like he never does. Kiyoomi tenses, grinds his teeth behind his mask, keeps on with his stretches. He should know by now, right? He’s always been looking at Osamu, always wondering, always watching. The  _ lesser _ Miya, except Kiyoomi has always wondered if he’s the more dangerous one. 

“They’re weirdos,” he murmurs, and Osamu laughs, head tilted back, sleepy eyes turning to crescent, teeth bared. He doesn’t hide. He’s always there, always in view, but only if you look for him. Kiyoomi is always looking. 

Perhaps he should find some solace in the fact that Osamu doesn’t play anymore, on either side of the court.

He takes off his mask and starts to walk to the bin to throw it away but Osamu sticks his arm out, stops Kiyoomi in his tracks. Gently, he plucks the mask from his hand, careful not to touch Kiyoomi’s fingers. “I’ll throw it for you. Get on court and show em’ what you’re made of.”

All the color drains from his face, before returning in a rush, turning red so fast he’s almost dizzy. “Right. Thank you.” 

Osamu just grins, easy as anything, droopy eyes looking at him, amused at something that Kiyoomi doesn’t understand. He turns away, embarrassed, shuddering just the slightest. When he peeks over his shoulder, Osamu has indeed gone to throw out the mask. Already looking away. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He’ll figure out a way to make Osamu look at him—become something he can’t tear his eyes away from. 

**Author's Note:**

> i just think kiyoomi would prefer the better, hotter, meaner twin. he can appreciate a meticulous man


End file.
